


We won't find out until we grow

by msmorland



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Groundhog Day, Inception Bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmorland/pseuds/msmorland
Summary: Arthur is a problem-solver.His actual job title is “producer,” but really, his job is to anticipate problems before they happen, avert them, and then fix all the other things that inevitably go wrong anyway. Arthur knows he’s necessary but unpopular: he saves people time and money, but he’s also the one who’s always telling them what they’re doing wrong.Arthur’s okay with that, most of the time.





	We won't find out until we grow

**Author's Note:**

> This bingo square, “Groundhog Day,” is the one I was most excited about—it’s actually the entire reason I chose this line on the bingo board. And then, of course, this fic turned out to be such a struggle to write. I restarted and rewrote so many times that my writing process is basically now its own Groundhog Day AU. In any event, this fic is what finally resulted (if for no other reason than the bingo deadline is almost here and I'm out of time for revision). 
> 
> Title is a lyric from (where else?) "I Got You Babe."

Arthur is a problem-solver.

His actual job title is “producer,” but really, his job is to anticipate problems before they happen, avert them, and then fix all the other things that inevitably go wrong anyway. Arthur knows he’s necessary but unpopular: he saves people time and money, but he’s also the one who’s always telling them what they’re doing wrong.

Arthur’s okay with that, most of the time.

And he’s good at it—the best in the business—so maybe that’s why there’s nothing more infuriating to Arthur than a problem he can’t solve. He has a reputation to uphold.

Or he _did_. Before he ended up here, somehow stuck in a time loop that has him repeating February 2nd in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, the day and site of the annual Groundhog Day broadcast.

When Arthur first arrived in Punxsutawney for the shoot, things seemed normal, or as normal as they ever were. They got the broadcast done with what passed for minimal tussling between Arthur and Eames, the on-air weatherman, and Arthur was ready to file it away as a job reasonably well done.

And then the snow started falling, and Arthur woke up to find that it was February 2nd again.

And again. And again. And again.

Now he wakes every morning to the same DJ routine on the radio— _that’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s GROUNDHOG DAY!_ —the same questions from their still-in-training camerawoman, Ariadne, and, always, the same smirks and needling comments and pet names from Eames. _You have no imagination, Arthur_. _You need to dream a little bigger, darling._

The worst part of it all is that Arthur is starting to think Eames is right.

If he did have an imagination, Arthur thinks—if he could dream up truly creative solutions instead of just nitpicking and criticizing other people’s—surely he would have found his way out of this already.

* * *

The first time Arthur woke up in the time loop—his second February 2nd—he approached it like any other problem. He reached for his notebook and mapped out every possible cause he could think of, followed by every possible test and solution.

But he didn’t—he was fairly sure—have a sudden-onset brain injury (possible cause #3), and he couldn’t realistically be science’s first test subject for time travel. (No one, not even Eames, cared about groundhog day that much.)

Nor did Eames or Ariadne appear to have any idea they were reliving this day with him.

Arthur tried everything he could think of to break the loop: He drank himself to oblivion, ate junk food for four hours straight, stepped in front of a moving vehicle.

Every morning, it was still— _that’s right, woodchuck-chuckers_ —groundhog day.

Today is February 2nd number 34, location somewhere near Punxsutawney Phil’s burrow. They’re about to go live with the broadcast, and Arthur is trying his hardest _not_ to snap at Ariadne, who is asking him for the 34th time if she has the right camera angle on the scene. He’s trying to keep calm with their boss, Dom, who keeps calling or texting him for updates on completely inconsequential things. He’s trying his hardest not to explode at Eames for _wearing a fucking paisley shirt on-air_ again. (A _tight_ paisley shirt, at that.)

None of them know they’ve done this 33 times before, after all.

But Arthur has never, he can admit, been the most naturally tolerant person, and by the time the shoot is over, he has a tension headache measurable on the Richter scale.

When Eames pulls off his mic and says, “Something got your knickers in a twist, love?” Arthur reaches down deep for his reserves of patience only to find that he is all out.

He sends Eames a glare that could probably heat even this frozen fucking wasteland and storms off.

“What’s his problem?” he hears Ariadne ask Eames from somewhere behind him.

His problem, Arthur thinks, as he stomps his way toward downtown Punxsutawney, his breath puffing out into the freezing yes-it’s-cold-out-there-every-day air, is that he needs a new plan.

And he suspects, having gone through his process of trial and error, that if the time loop isn’t the result of a bizarre injury or a science experiment, if shocking his system can’t force him out of it, then the most likely cause for this situation is, somehow, Arthur himself.

* * *

If Arthur were to take a hard look in the mirror, he knows what he would see: a prickly, type-A, easily-frustrated human who is, as an ex-boyfriend once described him, “an acquired taste.”

“You’re not for everyone, Arthur,” Bram, the ex, had said, a statement quickly followed with the specification that Arthur wasn’t for Bram in particular.

Arthur had already known that and thus not been terribly upset by it, but Bram’s statement had stuck with him. It seemed true to Arthur; it seemed to address some essential part of himself that Arthur had never articulated before. He isn’t for everyone. (He’s always thought that Eames, gregarious people-person that he is, might describe Arthur this way, too.)

So it isn’t hard, coming up with a list of things about himself he could change in order to try to break the time loop. He could be kinder. Less short-tempered and more open-minded. More willing to try out other people’s ideas for a change.

He starts the next morning, day 35, when Ariadne asks him once again how best to shoot Eames’s broadcast. Instead of barking out an answer the way he has for the last 34 mornings, he stops and asks her how she thinks she should do it.

“Hmm,” Ariadne says.

She stands there for a minute, her scarf whipping around in the Punxsutawney wind ( _cold out there today_ , Arthur can’t help but think, because the local DJs’ words are just ingrained in his brain now), and offers up three ideas.

The first two are options Arthur would have suggested, but the third—Arthur’s not sure he would have come up with it despite his years of experience.

He tells Ariadne to go ahead, and when he looks up, Eames is watching them.

“What?” Arthur says, not particularly kindly.

(He may need to change himself to unlock this time loop, but his antagonism with Eames has at least as much to do with him as with Arthur. Arthur doesn’t see any reason to change his behavior if Eames isn’t going to.)

“What?” Arthur says again, when Eames doesn’t reply.

The master of groundhog day ceremonies calls everyone to attention at just that moment, and by the time Arthur’s gotten into position, Eames is ready to go live.

Later that day, Arthur definitely doesn’t wonder about that look he’d seen on Eames’s face.

* * *

Over the next dozens—and maybe hundreds; Arthur eventually loses count—of days, Arthur learns that there are some things he can change. There’s an old woman who slips on the ice every night outside his bed-and-breakfast, and if Arthur gets there at the right moment, he can reach out an arm to prevent her from falling, can stop her from having to go to the hospital with potential broken bones.

And there are some things he can’t change: No matter what he does, Arthur can’t seem to stop the awful car accident that happens every afternoon on North Main Street. The best he can do is try to stop Ariadne and Eames from seeing it.

And then there are things that change without Arthur’s conscious effort.

It turns out that when you spend every day with the same two people, even if they don’t know you’re spending all those days together, it’s impossible to keep seeing those people the same way.

Ariadne, Arthur learns, is green but immensely talented, with that rare combination of artistic eye and practicality that will serve her well in this business.

Eames is harder to figure out.

Arthur has always known what Eames thinks of him, because Eames tells him often enough—he thinks Arthur is boring, buttoned-up, small-minded—and Arthur knows those are not qualities Eames values.

Arthur, in turn, long ago concluded that Eames is messy, extravagant, and impractical. When they aren’t actively working together, they don’t have much to do with each other, and Arthur’s always thought that was for the best. (And if he finds his eyes lingering on Eames at times, it’s just because Eames has truly horrendous taste in clothes.)

But it’s hard not to feel, at the very least, _familiar_ with Eames as the days go on. The kind of familiarity that makes it hard for Arthur to keep the same distance he used to. Hard for Arthur not to reference things Eames has told him in the many conversations Eames has no way of remembering, or to tease Eames a little bit, sometimes.

Like today (day 182, Arthur thinks, though he’s not totally sure), when they’re at the cafe in downtown Punxsutawney after the broadcast. Eames is gesticulating wildly while telling some story—and spills coffee all the way down his shirt.

“Oh, bugger,” Eames mutters. He swipes uselessly at his front with a napkin. “My shirt’s a disaster.”

Arthur says, before he can think better of it, “Took you long enough to notice, Mr. Eames.”

Eames’s head snaps up, a gleam in his eye. Then he says, lightly, “All part of your plan, was it, darling? You had the barista over there put some kind of propulsive device in my coffee, I bet.”

“Lies and slander,” Arthur says. He feels his lips quirking despite himself.

* * *

Arthur somehow finds himself in the sole department store in downtown Punxsutawney, _shopping_ with Eames.

Strictly speaking, Eames doesn’t need a new shirt. He won’t be on camera the rest of the day, and in the morning, he’ll wake up to this day again, shirt completely free of coffee stains. But Eames doesn’t know this, and Arthur has no idea how he’d begin to explain it to him.

And when they step out of the cafe and Eames gestures grandly toward the store and says, “Arthur, bestow upon me your sartorial wisdom,” Arthur somehow can’t find it in himself to say no.

Not that Eames has any intention of _using_ Arthur’s sartorial wisdom, apparently.

So far, he’s vetoed every one of Arthur’s classic, subtle, perfect-for-on-camera-appearances choices and piled his arms high with the most garish options he can find. (Arthur reminds himself that Eames’s clothing choices are not his problem to solve, and that Eames will only own this shirt for the next few hours.) Eames goes into the fitting room while Arthur examines the table of ties.

“Can I get a second opinion, darling?” Arthur hears a few minutes later. He looks up, and—

“No,” Arthur says. “Definitely not that one.”

“How about this one?” Eames says, a few minutes later, and then again after that. Arthur vetoes each one. He covers his eyes after one of them and Eames laughs and ducks back into the changing room. Eames, Arthur thinks, has a good laugh. It’s solid, deep, genuine.

When Eames comes out and says “okay, last one,” Arthur is expecting the worst shirt choice yet.

Instead, he sees that Eames did actually keep one of Arthur’s selections. It’s a subtler pattern than Eames’s usual but still has color, and it highlights his biceps and broad shoulders just as well. Arthur’s mouth goes a little dry, looking at him in it.

“This one, I think,” Eames says, quietly, and wears it out of the store.

* * *

They walk in silence toward the restaurant where they usually end up eating dinner. Most of the time, at this point in the day, Ariadne is with them, but Eames doesn’t mention finding her, and Arthur doesn’t, either. He doesn't want to break this quiet that stretches and crackles between them, even though Arthur has no idea what it means.

They settle into a booth. Arthur knows what Eames is going to get before he does, of course, but he lets Eames take a few minutes with the menu while Arthur turns the day over in his head, trying to sort out the strange mix of feelings he had while shopping this afternoon with Eames, the sensation that maybe Eames isn’t this person Arthur’s been so sure he was.

Arthur’s fingers itch to take out his notebook and list it all out, but he knows the list will disappear in the morning, anyway. He’ll have to think out this problem instead.

Just as Eames waves over the waitress to place his order, it comes to Arthur. The first feeling he’s experiencing is regret, for misreading Eames, for—if Arthur’s on the right track here—misinterpreting his teasing all this time.

The second feeling is one Arthur’s sort of embarrassed he had so much trouble recognizing: He had fun today. It was that simple.

The waitress appears next to their table and Arthur speaks before Eames can. “He’ll have the fish and chips,” Arthur says, and Eames’s mouth falls open.

“Darling, how did you—”

“Eames,” Arthur says, and takes a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”

* * *

Arthur tells him everything about the time loop. All the ways he’s tried to get out of it, all his frustration with himself that he _can’t_ get out of it.

Eames listens intently and asks thoughtful questions, and Arthur isn’t sure how much time goes by, but he looks up at one point to see that they’ve finished their food and Eames has somehow made his way over to Arthur’s side of the booth.

As Arthur speaks, Eames looks by turns shocked, confused, concerned, and sad.

Arthur finds it a lot easier to read the expressions on Eames’s face when Arthur doesn’t assume Eames is just trying to mess with him.

Eventually, when Arthur’s finished everything he had to say, Eames asks him if they’ve had this conversation before.

“Never,” Arthur says. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think I wanted—I wasn’t sure—”

“Hmm,” Eames hums, cutting off Arthur’s verbal flailing. “It seems we’ve misunderstood each other, darling,” he says. After what felt like hours of serious conversation, there’s a lightness back in his tone, and Arthur responds in kind.

“How so, Mr. Eames?”

Instead of replying, Eames leans in and kisses him.

Arthur had only just identified the problem, he thinks hazily, and here Eames is, presenting him with the solution.

“So you were flirting.” Arthur says, just to make sure he’s finally, finally reading this right.

“Constantly, darling.”

“And the terrible shirts?”  
  
“All subliminal messaging. I was hoping if you hated them enough, you’d start thinking you’d rather see me without them.”

Eames leers. Arthur rolls his eyes, but—

“Well,” Arthur says. “You weren’t wrong.”

* * *

Arthur wakes up in his room at the bed and breakfast to three things: quiet, an unfamiliar pile of snow outside his window, and (a shirtless) Eames in his bed.

“Mmm,” Arthur murmurs, and rolls over.

Then something clicks in his brain and he bolts upright. The DJs aren’t yammering from the radio. The storm he falls asleep to every night has finally dumped a few feet of fresh snow outside. And Eames is still there.

Eames is still there.

“Darling?” Eames says, sleepily, blinking up at Arthur. His voice is warm with affection. “What’s wrong?”

Then Eames, too, seems to realize where—and, more importantly, _when_ —they are. “The time loop is over?”

“Apparently so,” Arthur says. He sees the smirk starting to form on Eames face. Arthur holds up a hand and smirks right back. “Don’t you dare take all the credit, Mr. Eames.”

“Well, pet, I wasn’t going to credit my _self_ so much as my—”

“Eames.”  
  
Eames rolls over on top of Arthur and waggles his eyebrows. “I could just demonstrate.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and bites down on his grin. “I’d describe it as a joint effort, Mr. Eames.”

“Very true, darling.” Eames starts to move downward, then pauses and looks back up at Arthur. “Shall we explore further collaboration opportunities, then?”

Arthur lets his grin out. “Many more, I hope,” he says.

And they do.


End file.
